


We Can Just Drift for a While

by AtomicMint



Series: Born to die [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ben Hargreeves-centric, Ben's self-esteem is almost as low as the number of shits he has left to give, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicMint/pseuds/AtomicMint
Summary: Ben treads a tightrope between man and monster. Torn between an abomination curled tight in the pit of his stomach and the scared little boy reflected in the mirror.Ben treads a tightrope; sometimes he wonders what it would be like to fall.Or the one where Ben struggles to figure out where the Thing ends and he begins; makes suffering an art form; loves his brother and learns how to hate his father.All in no particular order.Klaus just wants to see him smile.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Series: Born to die [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714984
Comments: 6
Kudos: 141





	We Can Just Drift for a While

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warnings: Swearing / Violence / Suicide / Implied animal death / Body horror / Hargreeve's A+ parenting

Ben Hargreeves is a lot of things: the adopted son of a billionaire; the reluctant host of an eldritch abomination; a boy with too much blood on his hands; a boy who died before his time.

~~He's cruel and he's heartless, a selfish ball of malice and spite, waiting for the shoe to drop.~~

Ben is not, and will never be, just another face in the crowd.

No matter how many wishes he spares on lopsided birthday candles and stray shooting stars.

* * *

"Do I have to? You know I have allergies."

Ben rolls his eyes, crouching beside a heaving ball of fur with his arms crossed over his knees. "That's a lie." He says. "Stop whining. You just hate it when they get fur on your fancy coat."

"I'll have you know-" Long limbs thrown haphazardly across the length of the alley Klaus drops into a kneel beside him. Intoxicated as he is, the movement should be graceless and awkward but somehow his disaster zone of a brother makes it work. "- that I worked hard for this coat."

"The epitome of hard work is stealing your one-night stand's coat the morning after."

"Well… Can’t knock a man for having good taste and – god – the thing he did with his-"

"Klaus." Ben hides a smirk behind a scoff, shaking his head when Klaus sends him a bright grin. "Please stop talking. It's going to move on soon, can you just get on with it."

"You're no fun." Klaus pouts, before finally turning back to his Ben-allocated task. Reaching out with a practiced hand to lift a bundle of fur up and into his lap. "I could always spare some power, you know. Manifest you so you can get in on some of this action."

"No." Ben says. “It’s fine.” As though they don't have this conversation every single time he forces Klaus to stop and duck down in some alley or garden. "They don’t like me, remember? They can't even stand to be near my dead ass."

"Pity that. It’s a nice ass. If I wasn't your brother and you weren't as dead as a doornail-"

"Klaus..."

"Okay, okay." The séance leans back against the alley wall. Both falling silent as they watch the small cat in Klaus' arms stretch and resettle itself into a more comfortable position. Ginger fluff already staining Klaus' coat. He doesn't complain and simply raises a long-fingered hand and traces it along the cat's spine. Drawing forth a low, warbling purr.

Ben - distant though he is to the warmth of the cat's body - is happy.

* * *

Diego' hair is wild and tangled beneath a garishly bright hat as he beams to Ben. A concentrated ray of sunlight. He balances a poorly iced cake between his small hands. The candles on top thrown together in a loose plus sign.

"It's supposed to represent the evens-" Klaus proudly announces, smile catching at the dollop of buttercream that clings, determined, to his cheek. He's perched atop the table, hat just as bright as Diego's and twirls a matching third headpiece across his fingers. Ben assumes it's for him. "-to celebrate how awesome and not-boring we are!"

"Mum and Klaus helped me make it." Diego says, turning his head away. Bright red and suddenly bashful. "D-do you like it?"

Ben can do nothing but nod, struck mute by the surge of happiness that rises in his chest and lingers, warm and pure.

They know him well enough to understand.

"Then let's eat!" Klaus crows, still smiling but a degree softer now. Wordlessly passing Ben the hat before slipping down from the table and helping Diego set the cake down. "We're going to have our own little secret party. No odds allowed."

Pulling on his hat that is too bright and eating a cake that is too sweet, Ben finds himself smiling. He can't bring himself to stop.

* * *

On the first anniversary of the funeral, Ben watches Klaus stumble home from a seedy bar he'd bought his way into. Catching himself on lampposts and street signs as the alcohol burns through his veins and snags onto the strings Klaus uses to keep himself tied together in a vaguely human package.

It’s still not enough for his brother to forget, that the Ben that echoes his footsteps is already dead, and they both know it.

It's actually Ben that catches sight of the stray cat. Huddled beneath a brick wall, ebony fur painted close to its skin as rain washes through the city. Only distantly does he realise that Klaus has stopped, standing behind him and watching as Ben slides forward to crouch in front of the cat. Face falling as the hand he reaches out with assumes a blue tinted transparency and phases straight through the pitiful creature.

There's a hand at his shoulder, the only hand that will ever be at his shoulder, before Klaus reaches past him to clumsily rub at the cat's ear. It blinks before pressing into the weight of his palm.

When Ben arches his head up, the rain having no effect on him, his brothers face is morose, solemn in a way it never is in front of people who aren’t Ben.

"It's not the same." Klaus mutters. "But maybe it'll be enough."

Ben swallows back tears he cannot cry and leans back into Klaus' warmth. Pretending he can feel it.

* * *

Klaus has never been able to refuse Ben's requests; Ben has always been too selfish to stop asking for more.

* * *

“Ben could you just – I don’t know.” Luther runs a hand through his hair, other hand falling to his hip as he avoids looking at Ben. Clearly uneasy with the blood that still drips from the ends of his hair. “Look you’re making people uncomfortable. Maybe you should stay back here while the press take the pictures.”

“Of course.” Shoulders slumped as he stares down at the floor, Ben wonders why he would ever expect anything else.

* * *

Ben stares at the glass, finger tracing a line above its rim. Watching as his finger drops and passes through it harmlessly.

Without Klaus he is truly intangible - a helpless spectator to the living realm – and it frustrates him beyond belief.

The illustrious Number Four is otherwise busy in the bedroom with his latest hook up. Despite little remaining of Klaus that Ben hasn’t seen, though a mixture of awkward timing and Klaus’ general devil-may-care attitude to the topic of nudity, there are still things that Ben never wants to imagine his brother doing. Sex is definitely one of them.

So instead he has banished himself to a stranger’s kitchen. Left to stand beside a counter and stare at a glass that, without Klaus’ presence, he has no hope of moving.

Pulling his hand back, he makes to grab the glass by it’s neck. His hand phases through.

He tries again, and again, and again, and again and again. Until it’s less of a passing urge and more a consequence of pent up spite and frustration.

The desperation to prove to himself that he hasn’t lost everything in the wake of his untimely death, is one that rises rarely. But for the moments it does appear, it arrives in the company of a vicious and all-consuming spark of wrath that Ben has long given up on blaming on The Horror.

He is mature enough to accept that he, like all of his siblings, is messed up beyond the realm of normal people.

Ben is still glaring down at the glass and his useless hand when there comes a shuffling of footsteps behind him accompanied by a drawn-out groan. He turns and his jacket shifts with the motion. The suddenly tangible zip catching on the base of the pint glass. Leaving it to wobble. Hanging, precarious, at the edge of the counter. Before falling to the tiles below with a thunderous smash that has an approaching Klaus drop to the ground. Pressing trembling hands to his ears as he peers up at Ben with bloodshot eyes.

Ben stares down at the shards, scattered across the floor in a warped mockery of modern art.

Klaus, as always, is the first to recover his wits.

“Well then.” He says, unfolding himself from his crouch and strolling forward, casual as can be, to throw his arm across Ben’s shoulders. He pays no attention to the glass that crunches beneath his bare feet and the small crimson tracks he leaves in his wake. Choosing instead to pull at Ben’s hood teasingly before throwing his head back towards the bedroom and rolling his eyes. “Michael won’t be inviting me back for a while.”

Distracted, even as the familiar weight of his brother works to ground him, Ben is slow to return to reality.

There’s an empty pit in his heart and the flicker of light that Klaus casts into the darkness will never be enough, no matter how hard either of them tries.

The Thing rolls beneath his skin, pressing against his abdomen in a poor facsimile of comfort.

There are a thousand words he can say, a thousand ways to show his gratitude, to show his pain and to show his shame.

“You wouldn’t score a second date.” He says instead, falling back into safer territory. “You can’t even remember that his name is Alex, not Michael.”

* * *

For now, it is enough. It has to be.

* * *

Vanya whimpers, hand drawing back from his arm so quick that he almost doubts their father’s claims that she has no powers, before she practically throws herself from his side. Her hair, that he’d pulled into delicate braids not ten minutes before, following at her back as she swings to face him.

Her eyes are fixed on his leg, unwavering, as the bulging tentacle that slowly twists beneath his flesh begins to withdraw. Moving higher up his thigh and leaving his skin to slowly sink back into its natural position as The Thing settles.

Obnoxiously obvious, though likely not purposefully, Vanya swallows back bile. He’s close enough to see both that and the disgust that flickers quietly into existence. Lurking shallow in her eyes.

“Sorry.” She murmurs as she scrambles to her feet. Hiding fearful observations beneath the safety of her fringe. “I have to go. Violin practice is soon.”

And then she is gone, not even hesitating long enough for Ben to attempt to explain himself.

Not that he particularly feels the need to. This is how he is – what he is. If she can’t accept physical confirmation of the horror that she knows lies beneath his skin? Well. He’s fine with being left behind.

Ben is ‘fine’ with a lot of things these days. He has no choice in the matter.

* * *

Klaus drowns himself in drugs and alcohol. Sinks his fingers into the darkest corners of society and settles. Makes himself at home.

Ben can do nothing but watch as his brother slips and falls his way through life.

Hoping that Klaus won't slip too far.

* * *

“Don’t-”

Ben is quick to fall silent, heart in his throat, as he stares down at his wrist and the loose circle of Klaus’ hand around it. Under his brother’s grip the skin undulates as the Thing stretches, languid. It’s not angry, it never seems to be in Klaus’ presence. It honestly seems to be bored.

There is, Ben knows, no hiding away from this. No denial or avenue of refutation possible.

He swallows and slowly looks up, terrified by the contempt he knows he will find etched across his brother’s face.

Instead Klaus looks almost fascinated.

Confused, Ben freely allows Klaus to step closer. Watching, distanced from the here and now, as the séance twists his wrist this way and that. Following the motion of the movement. Even daringly poking at the Thing, giggling when it retracts back towards Ben’s elbow.

The spike of realisation that hits Ben is as confusing as it is nervously hopeful. “You’re not scared. You’re not - why aren’t you scared of it, Klaus?”

“Should I be?” His brother replies, sounding his response is the easiest thing in the world.

Should I be? – he says as though anyone else would stay.

And Ben falls apart. There is no other way to describe the ugly sobs that suddenly wrack his form, the way his body curls up into a protective ball even as he leans closer to his brother. The way he smears snot against Klaus’ uniform and draws him closer, pulling at Klaus’ shirt enough that the wrinkles have wrinkles.

Klaus is, he realises, the first to look him in the eye and see him as he is. Ben.

Not a monster that wears a human puppet or the experiment that Father claims him to be. 

Ben doesn’t ever want to let go.

* * *

There is never pity in Number Four’s gaze, only a dreadful, horrifying, understanding and, arguably, this is worse.

* * *

“The mess that remains, following your…” Reginald’s nose wrinkles into a frown that screams distaste as he looks up and down Ben’s body. Clearly displeased with whatever irregularity he’s decided to fixate upon this time. “Transformation… leaves much to be desired. If you are to be under the public eye on a more regular basis, steps will have to be taken to ensure that you clean up after yourself, Number Six. We can’t have the media creating some drivel about me placing you in an uncomfortable position now. Can we?”

“No sir.” Ben says, years of practice making it easy to hide the fact that he does in fact think his father is, and has been for a while now, doing exactly what he plans on denying in front of the press.

“Then you understand my thought process, Six.” Reginald claps his hands together, once, and it must be some sort of signal as Pogo enters. Pushing in front of him a steel cart. A white cloth is artfully draped across the cart. Hiding its contents from view. “Excellent.”

He turns to pull the cloth away and Ben’s stomach drops.

“Pogo and I will be outside, monitoring from a distance as you employ the use of your powers.” He says, turning and picking his way across the training room as he speaks, pausing by the door to send back an absentminded: “You know what to do, Number Six.”

Ben stares across the room to the cage that has emerged atop Pogo’s cart. Eyes catching on the three albino rabbits nestled within its grip.

Ben knows exactly what he should do. What he has been asked to do.

The worst thing is that he’s about to do it.

Ben really is so very selfish.

* * *

Beneath the knowing gaze of a harvest moon, Ben and Klaus sit. Bundled together on the narrow seat of a bus shelter and passing a bottle between them.

Ben doesn’t – can’t – drink, but the thought is nice and so it is what they do; in the quiet moments like these, the smallest of things can mean the world and more.

Besides, Klaus pretty much always drinks for two. Much to Ben’s distaste and reluctant understanding.

“If you could eat something right now.” Klaus suddenly says, breaking the silence as he raises his head, from where it is settles a Ben’s shoulder, to peer up at him. “Anything in the world. What would you eat?”

Ben blinks. Thinks about it for a moment.

“A casserole.” He admits after a pause, meeting Klaus’ guileless green gaze and offering a small grin that overflows with nostalgia. “ One of the ones mum used to make? She let us, the evens, help now and then. When we didn’t have training.”

“God.” Klaus breathes, closing his eyes and dropping his head back to Ben’s shoulder. Allowing their bottle to swing from his fingers in a lackadaisical grip. “Weren’t we shit at that?”

Ben laughs, “Oh definitely.” He says. “Remember – Diego dropped a knife in it one time and was so embarrassed about it that he kept quiet. Mum actually cooked it and everything. Served it for dinner that night and Luther nearly choked on a well-seasoned blade.”

Quick to catch on, Klaus offers a story of his own, burying his cackles in the soft leather of Ben’s jacket. “What about the time I mixed up spices in that curry. Extra hot instead of mild chilli. Fuck was that hell on my stomach.”

“It was hell on all of our stomachs. The Thing hated it." Ben snorts, “God. Now I fancy something spicy. Like that time we snuck away from the house to the diner and ordered-“

“Spicy chicken wings.” Klaus interrupts quietly, laughter subsiding in place of a mellow, easy grin. “It was the first time we had real spices, since dad never wanted us to experience any happiness in our lives. We talked. Fuck. We talked a lot that night."

“We had a whole plan, didn’t we? We were going to get a house.”

“And a car.”

“Some cats.”

“A working fridge.”

“Jobs too. Wow. It really was me and you against the world.” Ben says, looking up into the darkness. The moon’s reflection a warm orange in the glass roof of the shelter. “Guess some things haven’t changed all that much.”

After a beat of silence that lasts just a bit too long, Ben looks down. Surprised to find that Klaus has drifted off to sleep, softly snoring as he burrows closer into Ben’s side. The bottle is a swinging pendulum at their knees, Klaus’ grip strong and sure even in sleep.

“Well that’s that then.” He whispers to the air, the night and the moon before moving to rest his own head on top of Klaus’. “Good night.”

* * *

“I don’t understand.” Says Allison, looking to the side as she shrugs her thin shoulders, bracelets clinking together on her wrists. “Why you can’t just ignore it.”

“Ignore the Thing?” Ben smiles an empty smile up at his sister, clenching his fists behind his back as the Thing shivers and cracks open an eye that is not an eye. Sensing that someone is speaking of it.

“I mean, yeah? It can’t be that hard?”

The thing shudders and scrapes its claws at the seams of Ben’s control.

How, Ben wonders, even as he closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, can his siblings be so smart and yet so blind.

He doesn’t see Allison leave, a look of unease spread across her face, too caught up crossing his legs and sinking into a bastardised meditation. Clenching his eyes shut as the Thing rears its head.

The coiled beast within is aware, eager for an opportunity to escape.

For a moment, Ben’s almost tempted.

* * *

“…Klaus?” Ben’s eyes flit nervously between Klaus and the weapon in his hand as he wonders if he will make it in time. Despite the confusion that clouds his mind he knows that whatever point Klaus is trying to make, nothing good will come of it. He shifts his stance, prepared to jump forward. “What are you doing with that.”

Beneath his skin the Horror coils, predatory and knowing. Ready to strike at the slightest sign of harm to Klaus.

“Nothing much.” Klaus replies, there’s something crazed in his eyes. Something desperate. Ben swallows, taking a step closer. “I’m just proving a point, Benny-boy. Assuaging all those little fears of yours.”

There’s a flash of silver, a river of scarlet, a thud as his brother hits the floor and then… nothing.

Ben screams, shouting something – probably Klaus’ name – as he dashes forward. Passing through a table in his haste and falling to his knees beside his brother. Hissing denials as he reaches forward, desperate to stop the bleeding. Why is there so much blood?

His hand meets Klaus’ throat and phases straight through.

There’s an instant of denial before he tries again. Trembling fingers hovering above and then inside his brother’s throat as he bows his head. Murmuring words that can’t be heard as he sobs and howls and cries tears that can’t fall because he’s a ghost and ghosts don’t –

Ghosts don’t--

Numbness sweeps through his body, accompanied by an overwhelming surge of palpable despair. The Thing inside him shrieking a funeral toll as he kneels in a pool of Klaus’ blood.

There isn’t even a ripple in the crimson puddle as Ben’s knees tremble and his feet twitch.

Filled with disbelief, he leans forward again and again. First to try and stem the bleeding and then to just hold Klaus. To draw him close and speak of the past. To remember the streets and the drugs and the adventures in between. To remember the times they’d take refuge in their rooms together, back when they lived with dad. Talking about the future and the house they’d share and the people they’d be and the things they’d do.

With Ben dead they lost half that future and now?

Now there is nothing but the blood that soaks the floor and the stretch of Klaus’ mouth. Still warped into that wild, unhinged, grin of his, it will soon fa slack with death.

Ben fights the need to throw something and it’s not like he’d be able to anyway.

* * *

Ghosts don’t get to touch the living; without Klaus, Ben can’t even touch the dead.

* * *

Klaus draws a heaving breath of air, his lungs straining against the force of the inhale, and sits up. Coughing and spluttering as he rubs at his neck and the slowly disappearing line that crosses the otherwise clear skin.

Ben slowly unravels from the ball he has curled into at his brother’s feet, caught keeping a vigil over a corpse. The Thing shudders beneath his skin, exuding incredulity, or as close to the emotion as an abomination can get.

Ignoring the rolling beneath his skin, Ben leans forward, silent, to place a cool hand at Klaus’ cheek. Watching as a flicker of honest shame flickers through the Séance’s eyes.

There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the background. Loud and so very real.

“You’re an asshole.” Ben croaks out, breaking the hush that has fallen between them, before throwing himself forward. Pulling number Four into a hug fuelled by adrenaline and desperation and burying his chin in a head of curls. Nails dragging at the soft cotton of Klaus’ shirt.

There are things he needs to say, answers that he needs, but for now, Ben just wants to hold his brother.

* * *

His arrival heralded by a flash of light, Five perches at the end of the bed. Cross legged as he rests his chin on his palm and slants a bored look Ben’s way.

“The mission was tough.” He says, tone giving nothing away.

Ben doesn’t spare time for surprise or confusion, well used to both Five’s demeanour and the ritual they’ve practised for years now. Instead, he leans back against his headboard and closes his eyes. Sinking into the soft mattress.

“It was.” He replies, comfortable in the calm quiet that stretches between them, “Have you got it?”

“Have I got it?” Five scoffs. “Remember who I am, Ben, of course I have it.” With a glare that, when Ben cracks open his eyes to glance over, is all joke and no spite, he pulls a bar of chocolate from his blazer pocket and cracks it in half. Quick to unwrap it and shove half in Ben’s general direction.

Ben smiles, the Thing calm and content beneath the surface of his skin as he reaches forward to claim his prize.

Three years since Five started this strange tradition of theirs and the taste of chocolate is no less sweet.

* * *

The media take their photos and write their articles. Waxing poetry over how blessed he is; how proud their dear father must be.

Ben rages and screams and tears up the newspapers, stealing Klaus' lighter and sobbing into the ashes.

Klaus looks between him and the diminishing embers and doesn't hesitate to take the blame when Mum bustles in, hours later. He confides in Ben that her disappointment is almost worse than Reginald's fury.

He's punished with the mausoleum and Ben hates himself just that little bit more.

* * *

Five leaves to a background of their father’s derision and Ben hates the sharp jab of envy that rises in his own heart when he thinks of his brother. Anything could’ve happened to Five, for all they know, despite Klaus’ assertions otherwise, their brother may already be dead.

And still he’s jealous of the one who got away.

Luther offers him a chocolate bar from their latest mission and it tastes like ash and misery.

The Thing’s howls grow louder, Ben pretends he doesn’t know why.

* * *

As soon as their mission briefing ends, Ben races to his room, locking the door behind him and pretending he hasn’t seen the worry that mirrors itself across Diego and Klaus’ face. Any other day and he would stop to reassure them that he will be alright, that this will pass.

But now – with the adrenaline still burning through his veins and ripping at the staples that hold the door between him and the Thing loose – Ben just has to get somewhere safe and far away from people he can hurt.

It’s for the better, it’s for them. He’s protecting them.

He repeats the mantra over and over again every time this happens, hating that he’s selfish enough to consider giving up, giving in. Even if the thought only lasts a second before drifting away into the ether.

Pushing past the shaking that wracks his frame, Ben reaches beneath his bed for the wooden stick he’d had Pogo fetch for him years ago. Fumbling with the smooth wood for a second before ramming it into his mouth. Tightening blunt teeth around oak and grinding them down. Desperately chasing a release from the pain of holding himself together when he’s fracturing at the seams.

The bed groans beneath his weight as he collapses onto it and rolls onto his stomach, muscles locking and toes curling. As the host of the Thing, he’s always been heavier than the average human. He groans and reaches for his duvet, pulling it tight over his head before pressing his face into the mattress. Finally blocking out the light and with it, any distractions from the task at hand.

The problem is that, without distractions, there is no barrier between Ben and the pain.

He screams through the makeshift gag, clenching his eyes together in agony as lights dance across his vision. Ben feels rather than sees thick ropes of his flesh bulge upward as the Thing surges forward. Shin pulsating in tandem to its flexing as it tests how far it can rebel against his control.

Seemingly curious at his leniency, the Thing grows bold. Forcing itself through a crack in his defence and leaving him to convulse. Trapped in a world of hurt as his back bends at an impossible angle and his limbs spasm, thrashing against confines of his duvet. Everything is completely beyond his control.

He is nothing more than a worn meat sack, following along with the tide as it pulls him back to sea.

All he can do is clamp down on the Thing’s tentacles, stopping them from manifesting in all their horrific glory and destroying his room, and the house, beyond repair.

Eventually, the torture subsides as the Thing settling back into its cage, watching carefully and waiting for the smallest hint of weakness.

Ben sighs, flipping over onto his back and spitting the wooden gag to the side, not out of reach.

This, he knows, is only the beginning.

* * *

Klaus takes the book from Ben’s hand, a look of concentration overtaking his laid-back features as he focuses on the paperback.

As Ben watches, flickers of blue spread from Klaus’ fingers to the book which affects a strange glow.

Klaus looks up, catching his gaze and offering a grin. Exhaustion chasing the shadows beneath his eyes as he hands the book back.

“This should last a while.” He says as he gestures towards the book. “I know it must be lonely or boring while I’m sleeping so I-” He rubs at his arm, fingernails catching on the needle marks that litter his skin. Some still raised and red. “- figured I would set this up so you can read when I’m out of it. It isn’t fair on you otherwise.”

Ben blinks before a slow grin tugs as his lip.

“Thank you.” He says.

Somehow it doesn’t feel like enough.

With Klaus it never does.

* * *

“B-Ben?”

Head shooting up, Ben presses a hand to his stomach in a pitiful attempt to hide the gaping hole that stretches garishly across it. Trying in vain to hide it from his brother as his hand sinks into the twisted remains of his intestines with a wet smack. Swallowing back bile, he makes to scramble back, limbs uncooperative and flimsy, his attempt goes nowhere. He falls back against the floor. The slam of his head to concrete sending his mind tumbling down into a furious pounding mess.

“Hey there, Diego.” He manages to rasp, staring up at the ceiling and the blurry sillhoutte that soon hovers above him. The dark lines that make up Diego’s face are twisted and warped. Ben makes the educated guess that his brother is frowning. “I’m not doing so swell.”

Unable to hear what Diego says in return, Ben purses dry lips. Suddenly fascinated by the silence that is the void once inhabited by the thing.

“’s quiet.” He slurs, blinking up at his brother. “’s so quiet Diego. Where’s all the noise gone.”

Clarity arrives with a low hum, the pounding of his head supsiding for a second as Diego bows his head closer. His hand is hovering over Ben’s – over the mess of his stomach – and something small and wet drops from his face onto Ben’s. “T-the rr-ob-b-bers are g-gone.” He’s whispering. “I-It’s okay B-ben. Y-you’ll be okay Ben. Y-you’ll be o-okay.”

The stuttering is something Ben knows well but the hitching of breath, the warbling tone.... it's a strange addition. Ben isn’t sure he likes this new voice of Diego.

“M’not talking ‘bout that.” He says. “’m talkin’ ‘bout the big Thing. The Thing shou’ be here…” He trails off and digs his hand further into his stomach. Feeling nothing but hearing a loud squelch. “Righ’ here.” He tells his brother, oddly proud.

Diego's blur looks appropriately horrified.

He still feels empty and hollow, even though nothing hurts, and it’s leaving him so very confused.

There’s more of the small wet things, tears, he thinks they're tears, against his face as Diego leans even closer. Pressing his forehead to Ben’s and whispering reassurances and encouragement that Ben has lost the ability to understand.

The world is losing saturation and he can’t feel the weight of his limbs or the chill of the floor beneath him.

He thinks that he only has one regret.

“Diego.” He slurs, hoping his words aren’t too muddled up as he raises a crimson coated hand to cup his brother’s cheek. Diego’s face is still nothing more than a blurred outline. He wishes his brother would smile more. “Don’t tell Klaus.”

He never hears the answer. 

He wishes he could’ve said goodbye.

* * *

“What do you want to be? When we get out of here – when we’re free?”

“I – you answer first.”

“Well that’s totally cheating, but I guess if I have to answer first… I think I want to buy a craft shop. Like, the full works. With knitting old ladies in the corner and kids playing with papier-mâché. Where anyone can come and sit down and forget about the real world. It’s going to be glorious.”

“It sounds amazing.”

“Well you would say that. You’re my brother. I pay you in waffles and ice cream to be nice to me. So what about you? No dodging the question, Ben.”

“I think… I think I’d like to be a doctor.”

“Why?”

“I’ve hurt so many people, Klaus. We all have. For once in my life – I want to save someone.”

* * *

Klaus meets his gaze, realisation dropping his shoulders and slanting his mouth into a thin line. The glass decanter in his grip falls to the floor and shatters. Amber liquid staining the carpet. Someone shouts in the background, but he pays them no mind.

Klaus looks at Ben, opens his mouth, and bursts into tears.

* * *

"Together?" Asks Four, pinky extended in question.

Number Six smiles, reaching forward to link their fingers in an unbreakable promise.

"Always." He says.

(Under Diego's devastated eye, Ben's finger twitches once and is still.)


End file.
